Lachlan Markay - Sinking in the Swamp How Trumps Minions and Misfits Poisoned Washington

ANOTHER SHITSTORM IN FUCKTOWN

Asawins chest puffed up. Lachlan rested his head in his hand and sighed. A hairsplitting dispute over a months-old news story looked as if it was about to turn into an all-out brawl in the lobby of the Trump International Hotel between a senior White House official and a reporter covering the West Wing.

It was both an absurd spectacle and a perfect encapsulation of our escapades as journalists in the Trump era in Washington, D.C. We were surrounded by the gilded splendor that is the Trump hotel lobby, flanked by a crew of mobbed-up-in-Trumpworld luminaries with whom wed been having farcically overpriced cocktails and very amiable conversation just a few minutes earlier. And suddenly the whole thing was degenerating into a screaming match, with each party looking increasingly likely to throw a punch to the teeth.

The evening had kicked off after work at the Newseum on Pennsylvania Avenue, an ostentatious, now-defunct monument to the journalism profession that, when it wasnt singing the praises of reporters for comforting the afflicted, rented out its glitzy rooftop lounge and patio to host receptions for the citys political elite. It was April 24, 2018, and the former FBI director James Comey, whom President Donald Trump had famously canned the year prior, was hosting one of those receptions: an open-bar party and book signing for his autobiography, A Higher Loyalty. We were two of the political reporters who came for the free alcohol and food and maybe to ask the fired FBI chief a dumb question. It was clear from the outset that nobody was going to be getting any news or provocative responses from a buttoned-up, on-script Comey that evening.

Asawinalready a couple drinks in and buoyantwaited in line to ask him to sign a copy of his book for Donald J. Trump. Comey let out a polite chuckle and demurred. Instead, he signed the book for Asawins parents. The Thai American Daily Beast reporter felt like being cute, so he asked Comey if he wanted to join the two of us at the Trump International Hotel, situated roughly equidistant from the Newseum and the White House, to do some Fireball shots. Again, Comey delivered a robotic giggle or two and politely declined. Lachlan, the more conservative and less willing to make an ass out of himself of the duo, stood a few feet away from Comey and Asawin, literally face-palming. He had to remind Asawin that the Trump hotel does not serve Fireball. I keep telling you this.

When we reached the lobby of Trump D.C., Comey was of course nowhere to be found, but all was not lost. Our cocktail companions ended up including an assortment of Trumpworld regulars such as Richard Grenell, a veteran Republican operative who would soon be confirmed as Donald Trumps ambassador to Germany. Everything had been friendly until Cliff Sims showed up.

Sims is best known these days as the author of Team of Vipers, a tell-all book about his time in the White House. But back then, he was still working in the West Wing as the director of message strategy. He was friends with the crew we were hanging out with, but were not sure whether they mentioned, in inviting him over, that we were there as well.

A few months earlier, we had written a story about which Sims was clearly still seething. The piece (which well get into in more detail later) reported that two Trump aides, Andrew Surabian and Sims, would likely be tapped as two of the White Houses new point men on crisis communications related to all things Russia. To this day they deny that it was accurate (it was). Wed taken our share of the shouts of fake news! that had become routine in covering the Trump White House, and while they continued to criticize the piece months later, Surabian at least had come to laugh about it, and wed rib each other over the piece virtually every time we ran into each other.

Sims, though, was a different story. Our relationship was still on the outs when he sauntered up to our table, a knee-height glass one surrounded by couches adjacent to the Trump hotel lobby bar. Multiple people sitting at the table knew things hadnt been smoothed over with Sims, and they decided to stir shit up. Two people quickly made a point of bringing up our disputed story about Surabian and Sims, prompting us to insist that, actually, the story was completely factual.

We thought it was all fun and games at this point. Sims didnt like that and made his feelings clear. The next thing anyone knew, he and Asawin (or Swin as his friends call him) were standing inches apart, noses nearly touching, and screaming their cases as others in attendance attempted to break things up. Sims decided he didnt want to deal with this anymore and extended his right hand to shake Swins goodbye. (Swin and Sims would speak in the weeks after this incident. Each would say, over a laugh, that he essentially wanted to rip out the others throat at that particular moment at the hotel. Relations have thawed between the reporter and the former Trump adviser; in fact, Swin would honest to God prefer it if more Trump officials and associates would get in his face instead of ratfucking behind his back.)